Silent Moons
by Isolationistmagi
Summary: Werewolves- not the ones of Jorrvaskyr.


**Prologue**

_(The Ravager)_

Silence in the Reach as death flies beneath the twin moons between the towering mountains and narrow gorges. The beast runs on swift legs, panting faintly through what to her is only a minor exertion. The immense strength, the sheer power governing her body ensures she can hold the relentless pace for hours if need be, but need more than likely will not be. The prey is close, less than a league off. Its scent is overpowering in the still air, upon the hard rock, infused with that of the sparse grass. Her violent-gold eyes shine with the thrill, the anticipation of the brief and fatal drama that shall soon unfold.

The beast leaps over a fallen tree mirroring the ease with which a man would lift a finger- a streak of black and grey slicing through the cool night air. The landing is silent and effortless- as if the beast has done this thousands of times before. A wolf howls in the distance and a surge of excitement floods through the beast's heart- the twin intelligence of man and wolf both delighting in the song of the not so distant kin.

But that sweet call of nature is not the thing to focus upon. The object of attention is rather the object which must face its role according to nature's design. The scent grows stronger as the flying hunter hurtles towards her destined prey. One of the mer, perhaps Bosmer... though the smell is more akin to an Altmer... the differences are subtle. Such distinctions are ultimately irrelevant- prey is prey, whatever the form.

A breeze ruffles the beasts fur as she continues to follow the scent as it grows ever more fresh. Her heart begins to beat faster and faster and, while her pace increases tremendously to the point of a supernatural lightning-like sprint, time begins to slow. Her hyper alert senses sharpen even more as the seconds stretch out. She can feel every single bit of fur on her body ripple in the breeze of her momentum, she feels every contour of the land down to the smallest crevices between her front hands and rear paws. She can filter every sound of the night, from the now whispering breeze, to distant owls flying, to a rock warbler's snores in the distance- she can even hear the groans of rock under too much strain as she passes beneath a natural stone arch. She smells the rock, the sparse grass and sparser trees, the pungent fungi, a rotting fox in a nearby stream, but none of these are as potent as the smell of her quarry, the one scent she has consecrated her sense to.

She draws close enough to hear the elf's footfalls and the light in her eyes glows even brighter. She can smell the fear on it now, the fear of her, though it has yet to know her in person. The human intelligence takes the briefest pause to consider the foolishness of the elf- What fool wanders alone at night in the known territory of a werewolf? The wolf's mind pays no mind to the elf's stupidity, it has no reason to. It does consider the fear though- scared prey could be hard to predict. All these thoughts come and go in a single instant.

An instant and another later the beast hurtles around a rock and catches sight of the prey. It is looking away, nervously surveying the sloping mountains for any sign of danger. The energy reaches its peak at this moment, and she would run faster except she has reached the absolute limit of her supernatural ability. Both minds prepare for the excitement of the kill as the body surges forth with the full extent of its combined physical strength and will. The moons watch, and from her eyes scream murder as she lunges into the final moment of the elf's life.

The strength, the power, the sheer excess of the lunge carry the defenseless and clueless man some yards as she leaps upon him. A sickening sound that is music to her shrieks as he lands and slides a short distance across the bare rock with her imposing frame upon him. It is the sound of his skin as the friction of the rock flays it from his body as he slides. He screams out in pain as the werewolf shifts its weight onto its hind legs to stand erect. She deals him a swift blow with her sharper than steel claws to flip him onto his back, and shudders with delight at the feeling of her claws puncturing his flesh. She doesn't even notice the blood that seeps from the wound onto the stone as she pulls back her head. The man's eyes are only just starting to widen as he looks at the giant of a beast before him. He instinctively raises a hand to ward off the next annihilating attack but is far too slow, not that being fast enough would have invoked a difference- he was dead before she had even rocketed around the rock to kill him.

She twists her head quickly for a better angle as she falls upon him. It is a quick death, if brutal. Her forelegs pinion his arms to the ground- distinct cracks resonating from both of them, as her head hurtles through the air. The jaw opens, the teeth close upon the jugular, the blood spurts and fills the inside of her mouth, the soothing taste provoking her further. She pulls back violently and tears out the man's throat completely, leaving only the skeletal framework of what it had been. The meet is sweet on her tongue and she swallows as the life passes out of the mans eyes.

The swiftness of the brutality desists some after the man is dead- there is time now that can be taken, albeit precious little. She skillfully feeds a claw beneath the mans shirt and rips it open, finding the taste of fabric quite distasteful. The act that follows is a hammer blow to the rib cage, effectively pulverizing the sternum and making the ribs easy to ply apart, which is exactly the next thing she does. It goes to excess to describe the way the lungs deflated when her teeth punctured them, or the way she tore the warm and bleeding heart from his chest and swallowed it whole, the blood dripping from her muzzle. It is wholly unnecessary to describe the way the mans meat and fluids spatter upon the rocks as she guts him with the speed and efficiency that one would pull the insides out of the common turkey before roasting it. There is no need to describe the sickening pop as she pulled his left arm from the socket to better reach the meat, so those things won't be described here.

It is not a clean feeding, and portions of the mans entrails and splashes of his blood are left upon the stone by the time all is said and done. The light in her eyes has gone back to that of a less dangerous energy, and she takes one last survey of the corpse, still warm blood from it spattered on her muzzle and body. Both minds conclude that they are done with this man, and the werewolf lets out a great howl that reverberates off the peaks and is heard far and near. A fool passerby would take it as a gesture of prideful triumph, but it is not so. It is a call to the other wolves in the area, a message that there is still meat to be had. It is a morbid message for a human or mer to understand, but even their ears would find the call of the beast a beautifully unnerving piece of music. To the fellow wolves, it is one of the most glorious chords the ear can detect, and they have a far wider range of hearing than man or mer.

She drops back to all fours and walks away licking her chops, the blood still so sweet as her tongue pulls it off of her muzzle and into her mouth. In the immediate sense she is content, but she is too fond of blood to remain so for long. She will have killed again by morning with equal brutality and pleasure, perhaps even twice if she is fast enough in finding suitable prey. The night is more than half over though, and there isn't much time left before dawn comes, and her body shifts to reflect the more or less human aspect of her being.

Life is so beautiful.


End file.
